


The Line

by gay_jeans



Category: The Haunting of Hill House (TV 2018), The Haunting of Hill House - Shirley Jackson
Genre: AU, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Explicit Language, F/M, Flashbacks, Guilt, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Parallels, Parental Hugh, Psychological Trauma, Spoilers, Steven Crain Defense Squad, Steven Crain Needs a Hug, alternate unfolding of 1x10, i ship steve and leigh harder after writing this, ish, no multiple chapters we watch the curser scroll like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 21:39:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_jeans/pseuds/gay_jeans
Summary: The events of 1x10 go a little... differently.Or, Steven Crain gets the love and closure he deserves.





	The Line

**Author's Note:**

> lemme tell u a thing
> 
> this idea came to me when my mom and i were watching the ending together - steve was trapped in the red room with luke and unconscious, in his house-induced dream. my mom mumbles aloud, 'his dad will be carrying him out of the house, just like he did in the first episode.' and my brain went 'whOAAA'
> 
> to be honest this started out as just a little thing, just self indulgent, but exploded into this monster. ur welcome losers haha ahsdfksd; (i'm joking you're all beautiful angels)

Hugh’s arm hits Steve’s chest just as he sees the girl.

The girl with the blonde hair and nice, blue dress. The girl Luke was always telling them about. The girl everyone was pretty sure was just a figment of the kid’s imagination, and to be honest, Steve hasn’t ever been sure if he actually _witnessed_ her coming to the house for a sleepover _that night_. Abigail. She stares at them from the base of the spiral staircase through the iron bars. She’s what most people would imagine when hearing of a ‘little ghost girl.’ Generally sweet looking, if it weren’t for the lifeless expression she maintains highlighted by a haunting gleam in her eyes. He expects something to happen if he’s judging by the dead look on her face. What do ghosts do? Scream, charge at you, disappear? He doesn’t know. The anticipation is almost worse than the strange sight.

When he does hear something, it’s not from Abigail. It’s a slow tapping sound, splitting through the otherwise erie silence. And it’s coming from behind him. It takes a half second to realize it’s the Tall Man’s cane guiding his levitating figure past him.

Fear and terror are two different things.

Fear is something instinctual. It resides in the gut. He was afraid when Nell didn’t pick her phone back up. When they were dropping Luke off at rehab for the first time. When he confessed to Leigh why they’d never be able to have kids together.

Now, his heart is beating so fast and hard he can feel each pound reverberate through his body. He can’t breathe right. He can’t get enough air into his lungs. Despite his lungs constricting and begging for air he can’t seem to breathe properly enough to suffice the ache. His hand grabs for Hugh’s arm, still locked over his chest. Just something to ground him. To hold onto. Breathe, Steven. Breathe. Dad’s here. Dad’s here. _Dad’s here._

Now, he’s terrified.

“Look at me,” his father whispers as the Tall Man passes.

Steve hasn’t felt this kind of terror since Hugh carried him out of his room _that night_ when he had no clue of what was going on. But now he sees it.

Out of his peripheral vision, the Tall Man stops. And turns around. And bends over. And his face, cold and dead and blue, is a few mere inches from Steve’s. He stares with white eyes.

Steve’s wide eyes are fixed onto his father’s. Unblinking. Frozen. He thinks they may be tearing up, but he can’t concentrate enough to tell. It goes on for what seems like hours. Agonizing, far too quiet, and too uncertain.

“Look at me,” his father says, again.

If only he could be as brave as him. Hugh looks so authoritative, so confident. He knows what to do. He’s not even acknowledging the elephant in the room, for fuck’s sake. His sole priority is making sure Steve is safe. If only Steven had done that for his siblings. That was his job.

His heart rate speeds up. If he doesn’t get a hold of his breathing, he’ll hyperventilate. Lose control.

So he holds his breath and waits. Longer than he’s sure he’s ever held his breath. After what was probably just a few seconds, the Tall Man turns and begins to move away, his cane clacking along with him. He lets out his breath — and it’s so much louder than he anticipated.

The tapping of the cane stops and his father closes his eyes in defeat. Steve’s breath hitches again. Hugh’s eyes snap open as the clacking resumes and he wants to assume that the Tall Man’s carried on but the fear passing over his father’s face begs to differ.

“Steve—” he says, louder and more frantic than he’s spoken in a while, but the warning’s cut short as something big and solid and heavy knocks the breath out of him; he’s thrown back down the hall. His head explodes in pain for an instant before everything’s black.

* * *

“Steven!” Hugh’s desperate now, slapping at the side of his eldest’s face not streaked with blood. The sight takes him back twenty years, when he cradled his wife’s—no, no, that wasn’t her, that wasn’t _Olivia_ —bleeding body, head caved in and covered in blood. His heart begins to race but he rationalizes that this isn’t the same. Steve didn’t dive off the balcony. But he’s hurt and the house wants him and _you’re the only way he’s getting out of this, alive_. So he grits his teeth, steels his nerves, and drapes a limp arm over his shoulder.

 _I’m too old for this_ , he thinks as he attempts to pull himself to his full height. His age has already begun taking its toll on both his joints and back, and Steve’s added weight is no help. But the need to be a father, the protector, the line, again is stronger than the sharp ache in his bones. So he clenches his jaw and drags Steve towards the entrance of the house as quickly as his legs will permit him. The ghosts are never gone for long.

He sees faces through windows, hungry eyes begging to finish their meal. He passes motionless figures and concrete statues of angels and gods, staring at them, as he does an awkward sprint/haul to the door. Away from this hell house. Just long enough to get Steve to safety. He’ll be back for Luke, but on his own. He was stupid to bring his child with him. He said it himself; Steve was the last person who ever needed to step foot on that property. The house sees him like a dog sees a steak—the fact that he was in denial of everything that ever happened was just like the sauce drizzled on top. It’s like a challenge.

The door’s in view now. It’s not likely it’d let them go, but he has to try. “I’ll be back,” he promises the house, like a compromise, just as he flings the door open to be engulfed by the night fog.

* * *

When he sees his girls climbing out of Theo’s car, part of him thanks heaven and the angels and God that they’re able to take Steve away, and part of him wilts at the thought of his babies within reach of the house.

“He needs to be far away from here,” Hugh says, breathless, as he doesn’t even wait for Shirley’s permission to load Steve into the front seat of the Jeep. “And both of you do, too. Take him to the hospital. I don’t know how serious his head injury is. I’ll find Luke and meet you guys at there,” he finishes with a firm tug on the seat belt maintaining Steve’s posture.

“Shirley, you take him,” Theo doesn’t miss a beat. Her shoulders are squared, arms crossed and features set; she’s not going to compromise. That’s her thing. She’s always been the stubborn one.

Shirley starts to argue. She’s older, her baby brother is in there, she needs to help Dad. But she knows that not only will Theo not budge, she has to take this opportunity to be there for her other brother. They’ve both failed each other so many times on so many different levels. The so-called “bloodmoney” drove a wedge between them for years, when it was really just his attempt to cope and understand from a different perspective what happened in that house. It’d been the reason behind her harsh attitude towards him and the many times she’d lashed out at him.

She needs this.

“Theo, no,” Hugh starts. “It’s too dangerous, I can’t let you—”

“Bull,” she snaps. “This is just as much my problem as it is yours. I’m not a little kid anymore. You have to have some faith in me.”

Hugh opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but what Theo said must resonate with him: she isn’t a little kid anymore. None of them are. None of them are innocent, none of them can be spared from the house’s torment. This is her fight, too. So he gives a solemn nod, but he clenches his teeth together to bite his tongue.

“Be careful,” Shirley says, giving Theo a quick and firm embrace. Dreadful nausea rolls through her stomach at the fear that this could possibly be the last time she sees her family. The remainder of it, anyways. She pulls away and gives the same hug to Hugh, without the awkwardness that’s normally present. Given the circumstances, he isn’t the father she grew to harbor a grudge with. He’s the father that saved them all _that night_ , regardless of the cost.

“Get in and get out. Call me as soon as you’re out of the door.” She whips the keys back out and shoves them into the ignition, an ache spreading through her gut as she watches Hugh and Theo sprint back to the house. A sudden surge of anger rolls through her. What place does that house have, to take her family away? To rule their lives and haunt their memories for so long?

Screw whatever's behind this house.

They’re the Crains. They’re dysfunctional, and they have their issues, but they’re survivors. More than that, they’re fighters.

She’ll be back.

* * *

“Some ice, quiet, and rest, and he’ll be fine. Come back in two weeks to get his stitches out.” The doctor gives a polite smile and an order to the half-delirious Steve to stay out of trouble. She gives a wink at Shirley as she leaves to answer to her other duties; she can’t help but feel a little flattered. And if she can feel a bit appreciative over that, she can’t imagine how sidetracked Theo would’ve gotten. The woman makes girls who are already into girls swoon, and girls who are straight start to wonder if they’re not.

At the thought of her sister, she checks her phone for the twelfth time in a half hour even though she knows she hasn’t felt the vibration of a text or phone call. It’s been two and a half hours since they left the house, and not even a text. 

Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed is Steve, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt up with careful movements of his fingers in an attempt to be coordinated as possible. It’s hard to do that with a concussion. Shirley takes his blazer from beside him and beckons for him to follow, almost impatiently.

“You stay here,” she says, once they’re in the waiting room.

“What?”

She ignores the question and fishes around her purse for some cash. “Here.” She hands five dollars over. “Grab a snack or something. I don’t care. But _stay here_.” The stench of vomit in the car isn’t something she’s eager to return to, nor is she excited to explain to Theo that Steve couldn’t get the door open in time to throw up, but considering the circumstances she’s not too bothered by the promise of Theo cursing them both out. Steve grabs her shoulder when she turns to leave.

“You can’t just leave me here and you can’t go by yourself.” The few people (with strange enough vibes, and they’ve been around strange their entire life) occupying the waiting room are reason enough to not want to stay for however long it could take Shirley to find and pry the rest of the family from the house, but as hard as it would be for her to hear it, he does care for her safety. “I’m going with you.”

“Did you hear a damn thing Dad said?” she snaps. “You’re not supposed to be anywhere near that house. I’m going. Alone.” The look in her eyes dares him to argue otherwise and she turns to leave again, but Steve says something that stops her cold.

“What makes you think she’s going to let them go?” A beat passes. “She wants us all together. She’s not going to stop until we’re all there, and one way or another, we will be. It’s no use trying to stop me from coming. Even if you do, I’ll just hitch a ride.”

She grits her teeth at the position he’s put her in. She hates being outplayed, and she hates being outplayed by _Steven_. “Fuck you,” she spits, and walks away. “Come on.”

* * *

The Jeep slams to a stop next to the other two cars. The sudden jolt doesn’t wake Steve from his slouched position in the passenger seat. Shirley looks at him. He looks like less of an asshole when he’s sleeping. Huh. She turns the car off but leaves the keys in the ignition; there’s a gnawing feeling in her gut that they’ll need to get out of here as soon as possible.

* * *

It’s cold when he comes around. Cold, quiet, and still. A painful throb rebounds through his skull as soon as he cracks his eyes open. Damn concussion. He’s in the car, alone, and staring at Hill House once again. The keys are in the ignition. Judging by the total lack of heat in the air, it’s been at least half an hour since Shirley’s left. That’s far too long for his liking.

He clambers out the door and sucks in the fresh air, trying to calm the nausea in his stomach and still the tilting world before him before he tumbles headlong into a dangerous situation. The fog is still present, shrouding him in a cloud as he makes his way to the house. A chill seeps through his feet as his shoes meet the ground with each step he takes. He wonders if they’re even alive. Even if they aren’t, he supposes that he’s still coming to the right place.

His hand comes up to push the door open; it eases open before him without his contact.

In the parlor stand an entire family of dead, rotting people, all eerily familiar until he remembers they’re exactly how his siblings always described them. Exactly how he wrote them in his book. And they’re just… standing there. Dormant, but with beady eyes boring into him. It stops him from entering, at first, but when they make no advancement towards him, he realizes he’ll just have to maneuver past them to get to the Red Room—that’s where Hugh was heading when they were there for the first time tonight.

Each step gives a quiet echo through the room, mimicking his pounding heartbeat as he walks past the ghosts, eyes never leaving them. When he’s finally at the base of the staircase, he lets out a heavy breath he didn’t know he was holding. Then, steeling his nerves, he begins his ascension. His shoes clangs against the old iron and he cringes at the volume, as if he’s trying to keep his position a secret.

At the top of the stairs, Hugh is lying in a heap under the window. In a moment of panic Steve begins to wonder the worst, but within a few seconds with the pads of his fingers at his throat, he can feel a pulse. Then his eyes drift to the red door standing unnaturally vibrant against the otherwise cold and dead atmosphere.

Luke. Theo. Shirley.

They’re all in there, dead or dying. He attacks the door, twisting the knob and pounding against the wood and shouting their names, but nothing comes of it.

In a moment of sheer instinct and desperation, he calls out to the darkness: “ _Mom!_ ”

The air takes on an eerie stillness and somehow calmness to it. It’s the first time he’s felt the house that peaceful tonight. It’s almost familiar; not quite, but it faintly reminds him of old books and pressed flowers and subtle perfume. She’s here. It really is her. Then the perfume wafts under his nose and he knows she’s behind him.

“Darling,” she says, with that beautiful smile, as if she hasn’t tried to kill Luke tonight and take the rest of them as well. At first glance she’s as beautiful as he remembers her, but when he compares the image of her now to the memory of her as she was, he’s struck by the difference, subtle as it is. Her lips are stretched too thin over her teeth. _(Too eager.)_ Her eyes are cold and wide like, he realizes with dread, she’s as far gone as the last days of her life. With what he knows now and has seen tonight, he understands that the house has poisoned her mind like ink seeps through water. Slowly and not entirely but still absolute. Still corrupted.

“You have to let them go.” It’s the house he’s talking to. Not Mom. “They have so much life ahead of them… so much joy and love left to experience. They have families and loved ones they have to go back to, Mom. You have to let them go.”

“Steven…” The soft voice is foreign to his ears. It’s been so long since she’s said his name. “You’re still young. But surely, you’d know that with joy, there is anguish and heartbreak with love.”

“But it’s _life_ ,” he reasons. “You lost yours, and now you’re trying to take theirs. What happened to you wasn’t their fault. Just—you have to wait. And then we can all be together again. This isn’t you, Mom. Before… before, you’d be devastated if we died. If we missed out on all life had to offer. Now, you’re the one trying to rip it away from us.”

Her gaze hardens, her eyes fill with unshed tears. “I’ll be alone again.” What scares him is that it looks like it’s really her. He supposes it partly is.

Leigh should be at home, reading in her chair. Probably worn out from all the pent up anger and bitterness harbored towards him. It’s his fault they can’t have a family, and he kept it from her for years, like a coward. Letting her wonder, at night when she couldn’t sleep, if it was her fault. If she’d done something so horrible that God cursed her to only hope for children, but never to carry. He swallows thickly, eyes flickering to the door.

He and Shirley were never particularly close, but the book is what drove the final wedge between them. Honest to God, he never intended to profit off his siblings’ trauma like she accused him of. But what was he trying to accomplish, really? Was it his own way of processing everything that happened the short few months they lived there? Even if it was, it came with the expense of Shirley’s and Nell’s trust. He used some of it to pay for Luke’s rehab, sure. But did he ever really believe in his brother? Did he even _convince_ Luke of his unconditional support?

Theo took the money. She was indifferent about the means in which it was acquired. And yet he still never reached out to her. Even knowing she was struggling somewhere deep down, supported by her very obvious walls, he never sought to help her deal with it. The least he could’ve done was just listen to her vent over the phone. He was the big brother, he could understand things better, right? He should’ve at least tried to explain. If he couldn’t do that, he could’ve listened.

And Eleanor. Oh, Nell. His baby sister. He wasn’t ever there for her. Not when she came to him for validation about her memories of the house, like she should’ve been able to do. He’s the big brother. The protector. He failed her. Just like he did when she called him right before she… before she killed herself. Maybe he can make this right. Maybe it’ll be enough.

This time it’s his eyes that are filled with tears.

“I’ll go,” he whispers. “I know I’m not the whole family. But I’ll try to be enough until their time comes.”

Her tears spill over as she reaches out to caress his face. “My baby,” she says, voice barely audible. “You always were such a selfless big brother.” Her soft curls kiss his neck and the side of his face as she embraces him gently; almost like a feather. As his hands timidly find her back, the pressure around him tightens, like a statement: it’s too late to turn back. He hears the door creak open when a sudden, sharp pain tears down the side of his neck. It rips his breath away and he gasps, finding he can’t quite breathe. Something warm tickles at his neck, runs down the collar of his shirt.

His mother pulls away with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes are dark… cold. Empty. Watching with a silent, morbid pleasure as he presses a hand to his neck, only to find a mix of dark and bright red blood staining his fingers.

She cut his throat.

His name is called. He thinks maybe it’s Theo. But he’s not quite sure, as his head’s starting to spin a bit. Every instinct screams at him to grab at it, staunch the blood flow, hang on as long as he can, but if he wants his family to live, he can’t. Shirley has a husband and two children to look after. Like their mom wasn’t able to do. _(And look how messed up they all are.)_ Life has knocked Luke to the ground too many times, he deserves to know it’s not all bad and there are good things to experience. Recovery. Love. Laughter. Family. And Theo has to learn to let people in. That it’s okay to be vulnerable and loved. That she deserves it. And they’ll need Hugh to keep them together after tonight. No matter any hard feelings they’ve had in the past or will have in the future, he’s their father.

He just has to let go, and the house will set them free.

His knees start to shake. Attempting to keep himself from inevitably collapsing to the floor, he tries to lower himself instead, but coordination has left his body, and he crumbles ungracefully to the ground. At some point, he isn’t sure when, his head is in his mother’s lap. She combs her fingertips through his hair like she’s lulling him to sleep. Except she’s murmuring, “Wake up, darling.” Against his wishes, his eyes involuntarily close in content at the soothing motion. He always loved it when she did that, even though he denied it as he grew older. Tears squeeze past his eyelids at the bittersweet memory. Maybe, if he keeps his eyes closed, he’ll go faster and they won’t have to see their big brother like this. Wheezing for air. Bleeding out.

“Stay back!” Olivia suddenly shouts. She sounds desperate. “Don’t touch him, he’s coming back to me. He’s coming back.” He can feel his blood soaking through the dress underneath his head. Shadows pass over his eyelids, so he cracks his eyes open to see what’s going on, and who his mother is warning.

Oh. It’s Dad. He’s hovering over Steve’s figure, laying curled in on himself like the child he feels like in his mother’s arms. He looks so worried. But he shouldn’t be. Steve just saved them.

“—eve? Steve, look at me.”

“It’s…” he manages to gasp out. “‘S alright. ‘S alright, dad.” His eyes are slipping closed again.

Hugh shoots a look over his shoulder. “Get Luke to the hospital, _now_. I’ll meet you there.”

There’s some sort of argument that takes place, and he’s so tired of it all, so he tunes it out. He doesn’t know how long he’s unaware of things, but he’s brought back to reality when his mother’s grip on his hair suddenly tightens. It adds to his already throbbing headache, and when he tries to open his eyes, a cloud of black overtakes his vision.

* * *

“Come on, Steve!” Nell laughs and grips his hand tighter as she pulls him up the stairs. Her long, brown locks of hair bounce off her shoulders.

He rolls his eyes playfully and huffs, but can’t hide his smile. It’s so nice to see her happy again. “Alright, where are you taking me?”

“There’s someone you have to meet.”

Though cryptic, he decides to humor her and go along with it. A soft, melodic song seems to be playing on a record player in a distant room. The house has an overall peaceful aura. It’s the most peaceful he’s ever felt it, even as a boy when they first walked in and were excited for the adventure of living in an old mansion. Warm lighting strikes dark paneling against the walls; shadows are just shadows and not hiding places; the air is crisp and doesn’t hold the old musk that constantly reminds him of another life that isn’t his. This is home.

She finally pulls him to the Red Room, and he looks at her strangely, like she’s got something up her sleeve. “Nell, what are we doing here? Are you pulling my leg?”

Her expression is filled with love and joy. She opens the door slowly, with ease, and lets Steve observe the contents of the room.

It’s a nursery. The walls are a soft beige, with a chest of drawers underneath the window, a shelf of toys on one wall, and a crib on the other. He approaches the bed slowly, wondering a question he already knows the answer to deep in his heart. There’s a music box on the chest of drawers playing a quiet, soothing lullaby. Little coos come from the crib in contentment. Eventually, he can see the child inside. And he melts.

“He’s yours, Steve. Well, in a sense. He’s the child you never had; the one you would’ve.”

He doesn’t know if the tears spilling over his cheeks are from seeing this baby, _his_ baby, his ray of sunshine throughout this whole past week, or if it’s the implications behind the word ‘would’ve’ and the fact that Nell herself is saying it. The babe looks newborn. So young, and innocent, soft, and _his_. So beautiful. Then he realizes he was capable of creating this life. But he took that ability away. His shoulders shake in a bitter and apologetic sob. He took this away from Leigh, even if it was before they met. He was still at fault.

The baby’s hand curls around his finger that hovers timidly over his body, as Nell’s hand finds Steve’s shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself, Steve.”

He turns to look at her, but allows the baby to cling to his finger. Part of him is afraid he’ll disappear, otherwise. “How can I not?”

“You were trying to protect them,” she says sincerely, her eyes sympathetic and mouth turned down at the corners. “Whether you were right or wrong doesn’t change where your heart was. You have to understand that, and move on.” She pauses. “I can’t decide for you whether or not to move on or not. It’s your decision, and yours alone.”

He blinks. The Red Room. Mom. Dad. Shirley, Theo, Luke.

He tries to sober himself, aware that this is not real and merely a bridge, and straightens his posture. “Has… has she let them go?” he asks hesitantly.

Nell sighs to herself and her features, if possible, soften even more than they already are. “Yes. And they’re trying to get you back, but… you were the price of their lives. If you back out now, I can’t promise that she—the house will let any of you go.”

She seems to know that the manifestation of Olivia in the house is very different than Olivia herself, even in the afterlife. A shiver rolls down his spine at the thought of her combing her fingertips through his hair if it wasn’t truly her. Of course he knows it isn’t really her, more like a distorted version of her, but the idea of the house using her like a puppet still disturbs him.

The door squeaks open, and in walks his father. Not gray-haired, stress-ridden Hugh, but a younger, taller, healthier Hugh. The father who lived in Hill House. “Hey, Nelly,” he smiles, spreading his arms.

Her eyes widen, just as surprised as Steve. “Daddy?” She runs to his embrace and laughs in glee. Her face is buried in his neck. “Oh, Dad, I’ve missed you.”

His voice is muffled by her shoulder. “I’ve missed you too, Sweetheart.” Their hug ends and he turns to Steve. “I’ve got to talk with Stevie, alright? Would you give us a minute?”

* * *

Shirley’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel. She glances over to her older brother in the passenger seat every few seconds. “Harder, put pressure on it—”

“I’m _trying_ but it won’t stop fucking bleeding!” Theo’s hands are visibly shaking as blood soaks through Steve’s wadded up blazer pressed against his neck. Her hair is tangled and stuck to her face in places, eyes wide with adrenaline and fear.

Next to her, Hugh sits, cramped, in the middle seat as he tends to an unconscious Luke. His priority is to make sure he’s breathing at all times and if he vomits, he doesn’t choke on it. Unfortunately, that’s all he can do for him at the moment.

“Theo, let me,” Hugh says, his firm tone implying there’s no room for debate. She begrudgingly lets him take over and they switch seats. However it’s possible, he seems to be keeping his head on his shoulders. His hands are precise in their movements.

“Shirl, can you go any faster?” The stress in Theo’s voice could be mistaken for hostility, and Shirley’s anxiety impairs her ability to differentiate between the two.

“I’m going as fast as I can without flipping the car over, Theodora,” she snaps. “The ambulance will meet us halfway. Is that good enough for you? Would you rather me be a fucking wizard so I could just snap my fingers and be there? Or maybe I could snap my fingers and none of this would have ever fucking happened, yeah?” She jerks the steering wheel a little forcefully at a turn.

“Yeah, you know what? That would be nice.”

“Fuck you, Theo—”

“Girls!”

The car is struck silent.

“Could we wait until your brothers are not dying for us to be at each other’s throats?”

They’re silent for a minute before Shirley lets out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Theo. That wasn’t fair.”

Theo is somber, but the look in her eyes is far off. She crosses her arms. “No, it wasn’t… I’m sorry, too.”

They ride in silence, Hugh’s brow furrowed as he keeps as much pressure on his son’s neck as possible for the next couple of minutes until the wail of ambulance sirens greets them like a chorus of angels.

* * *

He wakes to a dry throat. He tries to swallow, and upon finding there’s something lodged down his throat, he chokes and starts to gag. It’s happening again, he’s choking, he can’t breathe, he’s _dying again, dad’s dead, where is dad_ —

And then there’s a pair of hands gripping his shoulders in an attempt to drag him back to reality. They’re thin, but strong, and familiar. A voice is instructing him to breathe, to quit fighting the tube, to take control again until the doctor arrives. Leigh, he realizes. She shouldn’t see him like this, she must hate him, he can’t be a burden to her on top of that. It takes that mindset to convince himself to calm down and that he’ll be able to breathe properly if he quits trying to swallow.

A nurse comes in and promptly removes the tube; it’s barely past his lips when he’s asking about Hugh, as articulately as he can manage with his throat as raspy as it is, wanting to know if he’s alright. Leigh says something about them being in the cafeteria and types on her phone, presumably texting the others. The nurse gives him the go-ahead to call them if he needs anything, and that the doctor will be by shortly to give him a rundown of his condition.

He’s able to get a good look at his—at Leigh. She looks exhausted; according to the clock on the far wall it’s four in the morning. Someone must’ve called her out of bed. Just that thought strikes a pang of guilt through him yet again. She must have been sleeping when he woke up. The dark circles under her eyes are prominent, and her nose is red, like she’d been crying earlier. Despite the grudge she’s made clear she harbors, there’s a clear glint of concern in her expression.

“Hey.” She takes his hand and massages it gently between her fingers. “How are you feeling?”

He swallows again, desperate to alleviate the dryness in his throat. She must sense his discomfort, because she reaches for a styrofoam cup with a bendy straw sticking out. The cold water is like heaven in his mouth, against his dry lips. He gives her a weak quirk of the lips in gratitude before wincing at the stabbing sensation in his neck.

“Sorry,” he tests his voice, “you had to… come out here.”

“You’re sorry?” she raises her eyebrows, scoffing, and takes a shaky breath. “Steven, I thought I lost you. Do you know what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night to your sister in law calling you, telling you your husband may be dead by the time you’re able to make it to the hospital?” (He doesn’t miss her use of the word ‘husband.’) “I never wanted to divorce you. I wanted to make things work, but I was angry, and hurt, and—” her voice breaks and she wipes a premature tear out of her eye. “I didn’t want my last memories of you, and yours of mine, to be of bitterness and unresolved tension and regret. I know, I _know_ we have a lot of things to work out. But I want to have the _chance_ to work it out.”

“I know,” he whispers. “God. I know. I’m sorry. I screwed up… I hurt you.” He coughs and groans as waves of nausea roll through his stomach.

“Hey,” she stops him, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. “We’ll talk about this later, alright?”

He licks his lips and nods.

“You look like shit,” comes a low and slurred voice from the other side of the room. It’s difficult to maneuver his neck but he manages to catch a glimpse of another bed parallel to his. It’s Luke, skin pale and eyes surrounded by dark shadows.

Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes, but hell if he isn’t relieved to death that his little brother’s alright. “You’re one to talk.” It strains his throat to speak. His voice is low and raspy.

“Wow. You sound like shit, too.”

Steve flips him the bird—it’s returned by a short snort. “Hey,” he pauses. “I’m glad you’re okay. I know I’ve done a shit job of being a big brother, but I do love you. And I’m proud of you.”

There’s silence for a moment, and a part of him chides himself that it’s too little, too late. But then he hears Luke give a quiet, “Love you, too.”

The doctor enters with his charismatic attitude accompanied by a clipboard. The rundown is given frankly, not beaten around the bush; his survival was a miracle in the sense that the cut only nicked the artery and none of the medical personnel was able to identify what tool could have made the laceration, clean and precise as it was. But Steve knows. His windpipe was damaged as well. It had an incision the length of a dime. That must’ve been why it was difficult to breathe, and why he can still taste the remainder of blood in his throat. He has to stay in the hospital for observation for a few days, but after that, should be in the clear to go home.

After the doctor’s departure, he can hear Shirley before she bursts through the door. “—can’t believe you, you dumb son of a bitch, you know, I really fucking hate you sometimes—” she all but throws herself on Steve, burying her face in his shoulder but staying wary of his bandaged neck, “—and I know we yell at each other more than we agree on things but if you ever do anything like that again, I…” her voice breaks, she’s silent, and she squeezes him tighter, sniffling before pulling away. “I’ve lost too much family to lose any more.” Then her gaze hardens and she points a finger at him, apparently attempting to play down the emotion she’d just displayed. “Got that?”

“Yes ma’am,” he smiles faintly, weary from everything. She then makes her way to Luke, and she sits next to him and tends to him with a gentle, paternal-like touch that seems so natural for her. So unlike her interaction with Steve.

Theo’s next. She seems awkward, shifting her weight from foot to foot with her arms crossed over her chest. With a heavy sigh of resignation she punches his calf underneath the cover. “Fuck you, man.”

“Duly noted.”

Hugh approaches with a bittersweet smile, his eyes far away. Though Steve’s pleasantly surprised to see his father standing before him, the ‘pleasant’ part of it dies down when he realizes that Hugh must know exactly what he’s thinking about. The dream. Before he can get a word in, Hugh replaces his expression with a crumpled copy of a smile.

“I’m glad you’re both alright.” He pauses, and Steve could swear he sees his eyes shining with tears. “I’m proud of you. All of you,” he establishes eye contact with everyone, even Leigh. He takes the chair between Steve’s and Luke’s respective beds. “All of you kids need some rest.”

The sentence hangs in the air for a moment before the tension dies and everyone finds their seating; Leigh at Steve’s side, and Shirley and Theo sharing the couch in the corner. Sleep comes quickly but fitfully.

* * *

_“What are you doing here?” They stroll the halls leisurely, taking their time, but Steve can tell something’s on Hugh’s mind. Not only that, but this is where he makes the formal decision to move onto the afterlife. It’s not like he knows how things work behind the scenes, but if it were up to him to guess the most plausible structure, his interactions would be meaningful and significant. Hugh’s interruption seemed to be spontaneous._

_“Do you remember our old dog, Arlo?” The aura of their company takes a turn—not so much darker, but with a morbid sense of realism. “You were six when we got him. You remember how attached you two were, right? Sleeping together, playing together, everything. When things first started going south, we thought it was something he had to get through himself. Like when you went through your growth spurts; your hormones got out of whack and things started to change. But, he got worse. It was clear that this wasn’t normal. He was very sick, and by the time we realized it was rabies, he was too far gone. He was unnaturally aggressive. Sensitive. I remember him snapping at you, Shirl, and little Theo too many times. That’s more than he would ever let anything else do to you before laying into them in order to protect his people.” The two round the corner and begin descending down the staircase in the main parlor room._

_The childlike memory of losing a dog to a simple sickness, something almost every child’s had to experience, morphs into the realization that it was a matter much more violent and dangerous than his parents ever let on. They could’ve witnessed Arlo shaking in seizures, or frothing at the mouth over a smaller, dead animal, or convulsing to the point of sudden death. What’s worse, they could’ve easily been infected and died horribly. How often does that even_ happen _? Maybe it wasn’t Hill House that cursed them. Maybe it really was in their blood, all along._

_“You were eight when he got sick. Your mother took you three to the playground before I took him out back, and…” he trails off, sighing. They stop at the base of the stairs and sit on the steps._

_“Why are you telling me this?” His voice is tight at the bitter memory._

_“In Arlo’s final days, he wasn’t himself. You know that. Even at such a young age, I could tell you understood. It was the virus poisoning his mind. He’d never intentionally hurt you, he loved you kids so much.” The look in his eyes is painful. It suddenly clicks why Hugh’s brought up their old dog._

* * *

Voices. Loud, frantic voices swim around the room. Fingers are scrunched through his hair; his head is guarded to the breast of a soft sweater; tear-filled, tiny gasps are confined to the intimate space between Leigh’s lips and his ear. With these factors and his dream-like experience after Olivia tried to kill him, he knows exactly what he’ll see when he opens his eyes.

Hugh will be on the ground, limp and lifeless. A few nurses will be around his body, each performing their own intricate, equally valuable skills to keep him breathing for as long as possible, but there’s no reversing what’s been done. He might as well have made a contract signed in blood. There’s no escaping the house.

Theo and Shirley will be hovering over Luke, already vulnerable, so hurt and betrayed by life. So they’ll be with him—Shirley will probably be hugging him to her chest as she’s transfixed to the very scene she’s guarding her little brother from. And while Theo’s aggressive manner may want to provide a barrier between the nurses working on Hugh and Luke, she’s also struggling to keep it together. She’ll probably have her gloved hands covering her ears with her eyes blown wide open but burning into a point on the wall.

And, honestly, what’s the point of scarring yourself with a searing image of fear, loss, and such bitterness that’s slowly built up to an inevitable climax of death and despair over the course of twenty years? What’s the point, when you could just keep your eyes closed?

* * *

Guilt sags on his shoulders the week leading up to the funeral. It weighs him down as he showers the morning of. He can see it in the shadows under his eyes as he attempts to shave, still wary of the scarring wound on his neck. He sees it in the slight tremble of his fingers. He knows Leigh sees it when she lingers in the bathroom doorway, eye drifting from his limp shoulders to the dead look in his eyes.

Hesitantly, she steps forward and gently takes the razor from his hands, and silently offers to do it for him. Her eyes are pleading, like this is a step itself in mending their marriage, and it’s on him to accept the challenge. He supposes it is, in it’s own way. His acceptance of her help is the acknowledgment of his inability to steady the razor long enough to shave his face, his own fucking face that he can’t even shave properly without help, and—

He just wants a steady hand.

She must see it in his eyes, how he realizes he needs her gentle hands to do this thing he can’t, and she takes the opportunity to do this task with a humility and tenderness he’s always admired her for possessing. The razor glides across his jaw with finesse, never drawing blood or chafing his skin, even as she dips past the sharp angle of his jaw. By the time the blade is discarded to the counter, his lip is trembling and tears are threatening to spill from his eyes.

Leigh’s hand comes up to rest on his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone, and they stay like that for what seems like an eternity—silent, alone, still, until he takes her face in his hands and presses their lips together. The kiss is long. Hard. Not lustful but full of love and passion and gratitude, gratitude for her and her love for him, and so many things he can’t even name. Between gasps for air and tears wetting his lashes he whispers her name and his love for her.

* * *

_Steve clenches his fist and shifts restlessly on the steps of the staircase. “I know, Dad. I know she wasn’t in her right mind. That doesn’t mean I can just erase all the memories of her sanity slowly drifting away.” His voice is getting louder. “Punching the mirror of the vanity I refinished for her. Talking to Luke and Nell’s empty beds. All this talk of not being ‘awake’ and her constant migraines,” he’s starting to get worked up, running his fingers through his hair. He’s never gotten to hash this out. Not with anyone who would listen, anyways._

_“Steve,” Hugh interrupts sternly, the slightest bit of his authoritative Dad Voice poking through. “_ I know. _I understand. I’ve made as much peace with it as I can, that the person I called my wife and mother to my children was not truly Olivia in the last days of her life.”_

_He exhales, nodding stiffly. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”_

_Hugh pauses, and Steve knows he’s about to drop a bombshell. “There’s a reason I’m reinforcing all this. I’m telling you that your mother was gone before that night. It wasn’t her that we were running from.” There’s a desperate, pleading tone to his voice, one that Steve isn’t sure he’s ever heard._

_“Dad...” His breath hitches. He’s not sure he wants to know what’s coming._

_And suddenly they’re plucked from the stairs, now standing in front of the Red Room with the door cracked open. The house is no longer warm and enticing and home-like; it’s dark and cold and black mold is eating up the walls. Light seeps from around the red door and It seems like an entity in itself. Though it’s not audible, he knows something important, something dreadful, is taking place on the other side. This is the most alive he’s seen it, and it’s terrifying._

_“What are we doing here?” His voice is shakier than he wants to admit._

_Hugh is solemn. Maybe even sad. “This is what I’ve been trying to protect you all from, Steve.” He looks at him long and intently. “Forgive me.”_

_Hugh disassociates from the scene with Steve, and seeps into the Hugh from_ that night _. The door bursts open before his hands. Inside is a table at the center, surrounded by four people. Nell, Luke, Abigail and Olivia — only Abigail is choking and gasping and expelling frothy spit. His mother stands before it all, dressed in beige robes, and almost blends in with the bland walls covered in black mold. Almost like she’s apart of it. His father takes one look at the cups of tea dispersed among them and the empty, overturned cup belonging to Abigail, and puts the pieces together. He rips the drinks from the tiny hands of his children and sweeps his arms over the table, sending dishes crashing to the ground._

_“Hugh, what are you doing?” Olivia exclaims, tugging furiously at his arms. “Stop!”_

_A horrified, “What are you doing?” flies from Hugh’s mouth as he pushes her off of him, and into the wall, where her head cracks against the surface and she collapses to the floor. Only sparing a brief second to stare at the limp figure of his wife, he then takes Luke and Nell, knowing it’s too late for Abigail._

_Steve stares, transfixed, at Abigail’s body, the spasms reduced to twitches and jerks. She’s dead. Poisoned. Olivia killed her. His_ mother _killed someone’s baby. But Hugh’s not calling for him to follow, so he forces his feet to move and chase after his younger family._

_He’s present as they run out the door with the car keys. He watches as he goes back in for Theo and Shirley, staying quiet and wary of the possibility that Olivia’s awake again. He’s there when Hugh goes back in for his younger self, asleep and clueless and ignorant to the terrors of the night. What stops him is what stops Hugh as well: a sudden chill in the hall of bedrooms, raising the hairs on his arms. Slowly, he turns around, and sees them. Five spirits standing before the hallway, turning back, at the other end of the hall, the Bowler Hat Man ascends up the stairs. While he’s frozen in his spot, he hears a distant gasping and heavy breathing making its way closer. All the kids are out, except for his younger self with Hugh in the bedroom._

_The door behind him shuts._

_The ghosts are gone, at least out of his sight, as Olivia limps into the hallway. She ducks in and out of bedrooms, searching for any sign that her babies are still there, only to find empty beds taunting her with what was. “No, no, no…”_

_Steve’s heart jumps when she reaches his door; her hand lands on the doorknob and she stops._

_Poppy’s next to her. “They’re in there.”_

_Olivia’s hand twists to the right, agonizingly slow. With something that feel like a punch to the gut he realizes she  was the one on the other side of that door_ that night _. Then it twists to the left._

_“He wants to take ‘em away from you.”_

_She stops. “He wouldn’t.”_

_“He is, Doll.”_

* * *

Luke, Theo, and Shirley seem like they’re on peaceful terms if their interactions are anything to go by. The pallor has returned to Luke’s face and his eyes are less clouded in misery than the years spent dabbling in drugs. Theo isn’t drinking (though there’s a twitch in her hands that suggest she’s fighting tooth and nail to not hit the mini bar), so that’s an improvement. Her greeting is less callous than it normally is, as is Shirley’s. The second oldest Crain has a small yet present all the same smile taking over the mouth that had cursed Steve and his book for too many years.

They’re trying.

Steve takes Kevin up on his offer for a drink. He doesn’t care what it is, as long as it’s strong. Upon feeling the vodka hit the back of his throat, he makes a mental note to get the man a gift basket or something for knowing he doesn’t want to fuck around with something lighter. He drinks just enough to numb the edge, and denies another glass. A drinking problem is the last thing his marriage needs. Leigh communicates her appreciation for his decision through a gentle squeeze of his arm when she takes her seat next to him on the loveseat.

The other siblings find their own places around the living room with a suspiciously calm demeanor so unlike them. A quick, fleeting glance is exchanged between the three of them. He sighs, defeated, and leans back. “You guys wanna let me in on the secret?” His voice comes out a tad sharper than he intended, but he leaves it uncorrected.

“Steve,” Shirley starts, closing her mouth and opening it in an attempt to find her words. She huffs through her nose and looks at him. “You know more about Dad’s death than you’re letting on.”

He clenches his jaw and starts to shoot back some defensive comment but she sees his intentions and carries on.

“Don’t bullshit me, okay? I’ve always been able to see right through you. Not only do we deserve an answer, but you _cannot_ keep something like this to yourself and expect to be okay. We’re not going anywhere until you spill. I’ll barricade the doors if I have to.”

Theo and Luke’s expressions are placid enough to insinuate they held some sort of secret ‘No Steve Allowed Club’ meeting before his arrival.

“You know what? I really fucking wish I could tell you. Alright? But those were Dad’s final fucking instructions: don’t fucking tell them. I’m the oldest, right? I’ve gotta keep this knowledge to myself for the rest of my life and that’s not fucking fair but that’s better than all of you knowing, too. So just back off.” His last statement is quiet and on the verge of breaking. Leigh threads her fingers through his hand and squeezes. She’s still here. She’s not leaving, but her eyes are siding with his siblings. He needs to tell them. Maybe not everything, but enough to satisfy their hunger for understanding that’s been parched for most of their lives.

“Dad gave himself to her in exchange for our lives. She let us out of the Red Room on account of him. As for why he… why he died at the hospital, my guess is that he wanted to go with us to the hospital before he… left. To make sure Luke and I were alright.” The room is so quiet a dropped pin could be heard. They’re trying to ease more out of him, but he’s not that easy.

This time it’s Theo who speaks. Her words are as firm and sure as ever. “You offered yourself first,” she says, a question rather than a statement. The scar on his neck starts to itch with attention.

He gives a hesitant, subtle nod, not meeting their eyes. One final attempt to be a decent older brother for them and he couldn’t even do that. Sure, they may have grieved a little if he was the one who died, but they’d have moved on easily. Dad, though, he was their ultimate protector. He saved them all _that night_ , and although they each had their issues with them, bottom line was that they still looked to him for answers and protection. Steve was just the lousy brother.

“What do you want to know?” he asks, defeated.

Luke shuffles on his feet. “Why… Why was Mom…” he trails off, visibly upset.

“It wasn’t her, Luke. It was the house. It’s poisoned her mind for years.”

“Why us?” his voice breaks. It doesn’t seem like a question directed at anyone to answer, more like a lament.

“I don’t know.”

Theo opens her mouth and closes it, before settling on a question. “Did he tell you what he’s kept from us all this time?”

Her words hang in the air for the longest time, teetering on the edge of the unknown and forbidden territory. Steve almost can’t bring himself to answer, but his silence is an answer in itself. “Yes.”

The tension in the room thickens unbearably. It’s starting again, he can feel it—their resentment towards him is rearing its ugly head at the realization that he won’t tell them what they’re dying to know. But if he told them, they’d hate him even more. He loses either way. It’s at this thought that his resolve strengthens. If they’ll hate him forever, they’ll hate him because he saved them. The secrets will stay with him to his death.

The tension doesn’t dissolve.

* * *

The ‘celebration of life’ passes by quicker than he thought it would. To be honest, he’s been dreading it the entire week. He didn’t think he could handle half a day full of pitiful gazes from extended family or questions or stories or _anything_ today. It’s still just as bad, but at least it didn’t last an eternity.

He’s the last of the siblings to toss a handful of dirt onto his father’s casket, already lowered into the ground. An eerie sensation of deja vu overtakes him, sending him back to Nell’s funeral, only just over a week ago. It seems like eons.

He walks back to the car with his wife.

—

“You’re staying over tonight, aren’t you?”

The question surprises Steve, but Shirley goes about her business, preparing soup at the stove. His hands are frozen around the scarf he was presently wrapping loosely around his neck, and he doesn’t resume the action, but doesn’t unravel it, either. “Are the others staying?”

“Well,” she shrugs, chopping celery, “Theo eats here every night. She’s going to be moving out in a few days, and Luke’s staying in the extra bedroom until the guest house is free. Besides, today was hard. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind. Since we’re all together, and everything is finally…” she lets out a breath. “I just thought it’d be nice if we were together again. At least for one more night.”

He thinks of Leigh. They were both tired; neither of them would be able to drive to the hotel safely. But then he wonders about the real motive behind Shirley’s offer. He sighs. “Shirl,” he says quietly, hesitantly. “You know I can’t tell you any more—”

The knife suddenly hits the cutting board with a loud clang and her demeanor shifts from placid to soaked with frustration. “Don’t,” she starts. “I am _trying_ with you, okay? I want to know what the hell went on with you and Dad and Mom so bad my skin is crawling. But I’m _trusting_ you here. I’m trying. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

He takes a shaky breath, and nods. “Alright. I’ll stay tonight.”

* * *

_In her momentary conversation with the old lady, Steve’s door opens and Hugh bolts with the kid in his arms. “Eyes closed!”_

_Olivia jumps. “Oh, god.” She attempts to reach them, but with her limp, she stands no chance. “No!” Within a few steps, she crashes ungracefully to the floor, but a mother doesn’t quit. She pulls herself up with the banister across the balcony, heaving herself to the window overlooking the front yard. She looks so devastated and defeated… Steve can’t tell if she’s still convinced they have to wake up or if a part of her has realized the gravity of the actions she attempted to take._

_Rubber grinds against gravel as Hugh takes off. Olivia’s hand beats on the window, as if it can pause the inevitable. “Stop!”_

_“He’s killing them,” Poppy says, once again appearing at her side. “He’s driving them into the dark, he’s killing them. He’s killing all of them.” There’s a morbid twitch in her lips that screams her thrill at Olivia’s anguish. “He’s driving them toward a silver table.”_

_“Stop.”_

_“He’s driving them toward the needle, he’s driving them toward disease—”_

_“Stop it.”_

_“—and heartbreak and sadness and death and those teeth, those teeth that’ll tear and chew and eat them alive a piece at a time.”_

_Olivia rages, head whipping around, features drawn into a scowl: “Shut up!”_

_But nobody’s there._

_Steve’s heart is still racing, enough that he has to force his body to take in slow, deep breaths, as shaky as it is. His hand comes up to touch her, but he stops himself. This is happening in the past. She won’t feel him, and he doesn’t need to remember that rejection for the rest of his life. As screwed up as this all is, at least he’s seeing her again. But then again, maybe it’s not a good idea that he sees her like this. Careening towards insanity and alone and hurt. Yet, the selfish, inner child in him still yearns to touch her. See her. Hear her. Anything, just for her to be here again._

_It seems like he’s in a daze as he follows her back to the Red Room. The driving force behind his tired, shuffling steps is seeing her in front of him. Never getting closer; the hallway stretches on endlessly. He hears her stifle a mix between a scream and a sob and mumble a strangled chorus of ‘no’s behind the door. Maybe she sees Abigail’s purple face and understands what she’s done. When he finally wants to let go, to just finish this hellish torment of seeing his mother like this and accept whatever punishment he surely has stored for what he did to Leigh, a hand settles on his shoulder._

_Hugh._

_Nothing’s said. Nothing needs to be said right now. For the moment, they just stand there, with Hugh’s hand anchoring Steve to the ground before he has a chance to float away into the infinite abyss of nothingness that he almost wants to let consume him from the inside out. It’s dreamlike, but it feels so real… too real. Bile threatens to rise in his throat. He swallows thickly._

_He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out but a quiet rasp. He tries again. “She… she killed her. She killed her. She—” he finally breaks down in sobs, shoulders shaking, tears streaking down his face. Hugh wraps his arms around him not just to comfort him, but perhaps to also ground him, and express his presence. Steve buries his face in his father’s shoulder and grips his back. “Dad, why is this happening? Why did it have to be her?”_

_“Stevie—” it sounds almost like he’s choking back tears himself. “You know that saying, about the flowers in the garden? How only the most beautiful flowers ever get picked? Steve, your mother was a bright, beautiful, luscious rose. She stood out against the entire garden. I’m sorry it had to be her, I really am. So many times, so many times, I’ve prayed and begged to trade places with her. That it could’ve been me, instead. But for whatever reason, we were meant to go through this. It was excruciating and bloody and terrible, but it’s shaped us. And it’s not fair, I’m not saying it is. But there’s no use trying to fight with the past. Now, you have to exhale.”_

_They stand like that for a few minutes, until Steve’s composed himself enough for Hugh to pull away. “I’m sorry this has to be on you. But there’s a little more you have to see, still.” Then, reassuringly, “I’ll be here the whole time.” Once again he reluctantly fades into the past and they’re suddenly in the parlor. Hugh looks around, and jogs back to the room beneath the iron balcony, where Abigail was. Where Nellie hung herself. It’s like he’s trying to move underwater but Steve manages to follow. But then his father stops in the doorway and bolts forward with a harsh wail._

_Steve’s breath is knocked out of him at the sight of his mother’s head, caved in, soaked in blood, cradled in his father’s arm. Crying, Hugh looks up, seemingly at Steve. “What happened? Why are you here? Did you see?”_

_He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t even try._

_Harsher: “What happened?” This is a man who’s just lost the love of his life, his best friend._

_“I—I… I don’t know,” comes a voice he hasn’t heard in as long as he had his mother’s. Mrs. Dudley. She’s wrapped in a shawl with shock written across her face. “We were looking for…"_

_Mr. Dudley slowly enters the scene and lets out a mix between a gasp and sigh._

_Hugh, trembling, takes Olivia’s face in his hands. “I can fix this. I can fix it.”_

_Mr. Dudley gets on his knees and timidly reaches a hand out to find the other man’s shoulder. “Hugh—” he whispers._

_“I can fix it.”_

_“Put her down.”_

_He smacks his arm away. “No. I can fix this.”_

_“You can’t.” His voice is strangely calm and comforting. Not panicking or afraid. It leads Steve to believe he’s always known the house’s danger. Part of him wants to be angry until he realizes he would’ve tried to warn them. He tried. They tried._

_“Why are you even here?”_

_“We need to get you help,” Mr. Dudley says. It’s obvious he knows he’s the only voice of reason in the situation. “We need to get the police.”_

_“Why are you here?”_

_He glances back to his wife. “Our daughter snuck out of a vent tonight and we thought maybe…” The horrific realization coming to life on Hugh’s face is enough to stop him._

_It’s a blur as they follow Hugh up the stairs — they all know what’s happened. Steve’s connected the dots, and the Dudleys have filled them in._

_“No,” Mrs. Dudley lets out a sob. “No, no, no…” With a hand to her daughter’s cold face she breaks down, utterly lost and shattered._

_Mr. Dudley gathers himself, still stroking Abigail’s hair. “She wasn’t in her bed.”_

_“I didn’t know,” Hugh laments. “I didn’t know.”_

_Quiet footsteps alert Steve from behind him._

_Mrs. Dudley looks up. “Abigail?”_

* * *

There’s a silhouette peering through the window of Shirley’s guest room, seemingly gazing at him. Or something past him. He doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder from where he sits, dormant, on the bed — he can smell his mother’s perfume. It smells clean and subtle and fresh, unlike the musty, hauntingly rotten scent (but still her all the same) that he can still remember from the other night. The figure on the other side of the window is muted and distorted but he still knows it’s Nelly. It’s not a figment of the house, he thinks, it’s a figment of his memory. It’s _his_ Nelly, not Hill House’s. It’s still unsettling when she does nothing.

A soft hand finds his shoulder and he blinks. The perfume’s gone. So is Nell.

“Have you taken your meds?” A kiss to the top of his head.

Part of him cringes at the word. He always suspected mental illness to be the cause of his family’s torment, because no matter how deep the subconscious attempted to bury the truth he knew, he was always referred to as a—what was it?—’stubborn-ass bastard covered in shit’ by his siblings. So, yeah, the first thought that comes to mind when Leigh asks is along the lines of, _“Guess it finally caught up to me.”_

Then he feels her pulling at the tape holding the gauze in place against his neck. Oh, yeah. He’s got a gaping wound in his neck that’s still healing.

“No.”

She knew that. She presses a thick capsule into the palm of his hand and passes him a half-empty plastic water bottle. It crinkles in his too-tight grip. He attempts to bring the bottle to his lips before downing the pill, but something catches in his throat and he can’t bring himself to drink it. It’s almost like he’s being forced to drink acid. The water gently rocking back and forth in his unsteady grip stares him down tauntingly from the mouth of the bottle. Like it knows.

He can’t do it.

This time the figure’s in the room, in front of the window. Not Nell—Mom. Her body is still and her gown is soaked in black mold. Even her skin is ashen, and shadows are prominent under her bloodshot eyes. A slow, wide smile cuts across her face. Not Mom. Her mouth is moving at a disturbingly rapid pace, words inaudible, but he knows what she’s saying, almost like he can hear it being whispered directly in his ear.

_You promised you promised you promised you promised you promised you promised you promised you promised you promised you promised—_

The image of Hugh swiping the tea set off the table and out of Luke and Nell’s hands flashes in front of his eyes. He looks between her and the water, and screws the cap back on.

“Hon—?”

“I can’t do it,” he shakes his head. He stands restlessly and places the bottle on the bedside table, then paces back and forth, still shooting looks to the empty space in front of the window. “I know it’s stupid. It—it’s illogical, it’s just in my head. It’s not real. I—I’m going crazy, aren’t I? I’m crazy,” he rambles, attempting to convince himself to down the stupid pill with logic. That’s how his mind works, doesn’t it? He’s a logical person. That’s what drove a wedge between him and his family after the events of the house, after all.

Leigh steps forward in an instant, gripping the hands he’s wringing. “Look at me,” she instructs, words commanding and deliberate. “Inhale for four seconds, hold for eight, exhale for seven. Understand? I’ll do it with you.”

He doesn’t realize how fast his heart is racing until he follows her instructions, making sure he’s not crushing her hands as his breathing as well as muscles relax. Their foreheads touch in a moment of silence. Hopefully the shuddering breath he gives, the quick squeeze of her hands, tells her what he cannot put into words.

“I didn’t think those anxiety attacks I used to get would ever be useful for anything,” she says quietly, easing them back into reality. He feels himself come back and suddenly the world exists again. There’s low conversation barely audible from downstairs, occasional laughter that sounds foreign to his ears; the air diffuser on the dresser wafts essential oils through the room; he’s looking into his wife’s eyes. How’d he get so lucky?

“You’re amazing,” he mumbles. “I hope you know that.”

Instead of answering she pecks him softly on the lips. “We need to get away. You need to get away.” She lets the suggestion linger in the space between them for a moment. “Let’s join the family downstairs, honey.”

* * *

_Steve drifts numbly down the stairs while the Dudleys fawn over their baby girl, the child they’d lost but found once again and weren’t about to let go of for the world. He leaves them to thrive in the fortune he never had._

_He sits next to his mother’s limp body. Bloody hair is matted to her forehead, obscuring her beautiful skin, so he brushes it back. She’s cool and pale. He ignores the people upstairs when Abigail points to the woman who hurt her. This is his mother, not the house. The house hurt Abigail. The house hurt them. They’re all victims. He doesn’t leave her side when their conversation shifts to the fate of the house. Hugh wants to burn it. Steve would like that. Then Nell would still be here. But Abigail is here, the Dudleys argue, then swear their silence on Olivia’s behalf. There’s a cruel irony to Horace’s words when he reasons that no one would know to mourn for his daughter, since they kept her from the world. To keep her safe._

_If only._

_They’ll be silent, if Hugh lets the house lie dormant._

_Mr. Dudley carries Abigail’s physical body past Steve, while his wife guides her spirit out the doors. They leave and Hugh’s spirit sits next to him._

_Steve speaks first after a few minutes. “Is that all?” he asks, voice surly and bitter. “Or do you have more secrets to show me?”_

_The pain in his father’s face is so surprising that guilt immediately twinges in his chest. It’s not like he wants Steve to suffer. But some things... some things have to be passed down from one generation to the next. He’s got to bear this, he has to for Dad. He can handle it._

_“There’s nothing left for me to show you,” he sighs. “But there’s something I have to tell you.” He hesitates and the deafening silence before his words is all too much, like the air knows exactly what’s going on and is content to watch Steve break. “Son, I—”_

_“I know, Dad.”_

_Hugh’s gaze snaps to his son’s. “What?”_

_“I know you’re dead. How else could you be here? This is my bridge to the afterlife. And you… you’re too real to be just a figment of my mind.” He’s past the point of tears, too spent and bitter for them. “Why, though?”_

_The smile that crosses his face is sad and crumpled. “You’ll understand, when you’re a father.”_

_That’s when Steve realizes exactly why this has dragged on so long. He’s alive. Dad is not. “You—”_

_He doesn’t nod, or shake his head, or give any acknowledgement to Steve’s surprise, and that’s answer enough in itself. “This house,” he gazes around them, studying the walls and fixtures, “is full of precious, precious things. Not all of them are ours. Not all of them are broken. But it shouldn’t have touched you kids. I’m your father right? That’s my job. I know I’ve done a crappy job of it sometimes, but I think when it counts, at the end of the day, well, I’ll be waiting for my family to be together again. But not before you all find peace. That’s what I, as your father, really want.”_

_Steve shakes his head. “I can’t, I can’t just let go of this. Any of this.” He doesn’t want to look at Olivia anymore. “This isn’t something I can just forget.”_

_“Don’t forget,” he says. “Let your brother and sisters help you. Don’t tell them, but don’t turn them away, either. You’re all going to need each other. Old wounds sustained together must be healed together. Believing and accepting are two different things, son. I think you believe by now. It’s time for you to accept, and move on, and heal from this.”_

_Hugh must sense Steve’s emotional release coming on before even he does, so he gathers his son in his arms and by the time the embrace is complete, Steve is falling apart. But Hugh’s arm keep him intact._

* * *

The last bag is loaded into the trunk, and down comes the lid. Leigh brandishes the keys for Steve to take if he desires. She knows he always enjoyed driving. It serves as a decent grounding exercise and he needs that right now. The breeze is nice. It kisses her hair and she enjoys the serenity as Steve tells the others his goodbyes.

“Going anywhere in particular?” Luke asks, giving him a long hug. The kid’s always been a hugger.

“Anywhere. Leigh’s thinking about Tennessee. We may take the long way, see more cities.”

“Be sure to call tonight,” Shirley insists. Their embrace is quicker and a little less natural. It’s the first time she’s hugged him in forever, though. They’re working on it.

“Okay. I’ll probably forget, she’ll probably remind me.” He turns to Theo, respecting her aversion to much direct contact, and ruffles her hair gently.

She slaps his hand away. “Bastard,” she mutters (with sibling love, of course).

“Love you, too.”

—

They ride in silence other than music for a long portion of the trip. Day turns into evening. Cities turn into countryside, and countryside to cities. Radio stations fizz in and out to local stations. Somehow, it’s always decent music. Maybe because Leigh’s holding his hand the entire time. He smells his mother’s perfume (Mom’s perfume, not the house’s old musk) and his grip on his wife’s hand tightens. She looks at him and she exaggerates her controlled breathing, helping him ground himself. It’s hard to tell what’s real and not real sometimes, but her voice singing her love for him is real.

He loves her, too.

He can tell what’s real and what’s not. And sometimes, when he’s smiling with her and taking her dancing in festivals while they’re stopped, in the silence between them in a hotel bed at night, the music they hum to in the car, he moves on.

 

**Author's Note:**

> idk if i made it clear enough but the italicized scenes are all the same experience that took place before steve woke up in the hospital, we're just learning ab it as the fic continues


End file.
